Inspired by Bill Bailey's bit on Fifty Things To Do etc. (“Lunge wildly at the Pope!”) and a subsequent conversation with Paul about Fifty Dull Things, I thought I'd kick this one off with my five.
Picture it, if you will. Poor old Dave. He's basically a decent bloke, but he has the misfortune of being the one decent bloke in an entire race of arboreal killing machines.
I imagine Dave's day to go something like this:
Dave: Morning!
Other Triffids: HISSSSSSSSSSS!
Dave: *sigh*
(Later)
Dave: Hello there!
People: AIIIEEEE! A TRIFFID! RUN!
Dave: *sigh*
There are estate agents who will try to sell you flats in London. There are also estate agents who will try to sell you “Executive Apartments in the Heart of the City”.
How to tell the difference?
If it's a flat, there will be a picture of the building. If it's an “Executive Apartment”, the picture will be of the view.
Commuting erodes the soul.
Oh, not right away, not so as you'd notice after the first day, or even the first week, but over time. As you deal with the shovers, and the people taking up an extra seat for their bag, and the people who stand right in front of the doors when you're trying to get off the train (both inside and outside), and the cumulative hours of just standing in the train wishing desperately you were somewhere else. Slowly but surely, your soul is eroded, and eventually you become one of Them. A Commuter.
You start shoving with the rest, because there's no other way you can get a seat. You start pushing your way off the train because you can't stand to be in there a second longer than you have to. It's every man for himself and to hell with the rest of them.
I only really realised this today, when I allowed someone to get off the train in front of me and realised that this simple piece of courtesy had become the exception. So I'm going to try and remember to do that more often. It may only be the equivalent of a sticking plaster over a sucking chest wound, but sometimes that precious extra little slice of time is enough to save a life. As Paul Daniels was so fond of telling us, Every Second Counts.
I was reminded the other day of something which happened a couple of years ago, which I was confused and amused by in equal measure. Lest it be once again lost to the erratic whims of my memory, I thought I'd share it with you all.
Phone rings. Simes picks it up.
Simes: Hello?
Caller: Hi, is Richard there please?
Simes: I'm sorry, I'm afraid you've got the wrong number. There's nobody here of that name.
Caller: Oh. (Pause) Can I leave a message?
I'm not making this up.
I have on my desk a box of Twinings Assam tea bags, upon which is written the phrase “Traditional tasting tea”. It may just be me, but I think they're missing a hyphen there. Either that or the “Traditional drinking tea” was on a different shelf and I missed it.
The subject of my dissertation today is that of a wonderful new entry in the exciting world of entertainment software. In short: a game.
Evil Genius is the name, and it's a World Domination Simulator. It's a pastiche of your old-school spy movies, with yellow-jumpsuited workers operating big control panels in the Control Room and white-coated scientists operating all kinds of strange machinery in the Research Lab.
Basically, it's brilliant. There is comedy pretty much everywhere you look, not least of which being the dual-purpose of many of the items you can build in your base – the food mixer, library bookshelves, shooting range and all of the weird research machinery can also be employed to torture captured agents of the Forces of Justice.
You are not required to capture or kill these people, though – social minions (from valet to playboy) may be used to confuse them so that they forget what they've seen inside your base.
Which leads me to possibly my favourite moment in the game – more so than stealing the Fricken Laser or shrinking the Eiffel Tower before making off with it, more so even than my defeat of sultry latina super-agent Mariana Mamba. My social minions had so confused and bewildered one of the would-be infiltrators of my base that he had completely forgotten why he was there. I found him in the hotel lounge throwing some moves on the dance floor.
There is more, much more, and a great deal that I have yet to see – many hours into the game and I have moved to my second Island Lair, but have yet to begin work on, or even choose, my Doomsday Device.
In short, play this game. If you don't, you're missing out on something marvellous. So there.
Today I wish to pay my respects to a dear, recently departed companion. Ever at my side, ready at a moment's notice to spring to my assistance, asking nothing in return but to have the worst shaken off and be allowed to dry properly.[1]
Rest well, faithful friend, stalwart deflector of wind, rain, sleet, hail and snow. You tried your best, struggle as we both did against the mighty gusts assailing the Wharf this autumn morn. But alas, 'twas to no avail – Dame Nature in her capriciousness destroyed you, bending your spars beyond hope of repair and finally leaving me, drenched and gasping, seeking what little shelter I could behind the little building next to the pedestrian crossing.
To Brolly. Rest in peace. We shall not see his like again.
Until lunchtime, anyway.
[1] Admit it. At this stage, you're worried.
